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I absolutely hate Julia Roberts, so I most likely will not pay to see this film. Even if Clive Owen is in it...
btw, read a very funny and scathing review on goldenfiddle.com:
The only thing separating Closer -Mike Nichols’ new pronunciational and filmic nightmare- from the experience of losing your soap opera virginity by starting half-way through the Days of Our Lives Three Hour Special is Clive Owen. That and the fact that Julia Roberts, Jude Law and Natalie Portman would never do Days anymore. Nichols, who has magically maintained genius status despite “What Planet Are You From?” throws us immediately into a sex rectangle without paying homage to film’s time-honored tradition of character development. Boy meets girl, another boy meets girl through boy who met another girl, and then we settle down to an hour and a half of dialogue like, “did you fuck him,” “yes,” “was it good,” “I prefer you.” And we’re supposed to be shocked by the bluntness, by the inhumanity of the interaction—“oh my god, how could you just switch from Dan to Larry so easily?!” But we don’t give a donkey shit because the characters are inhuman from the very start, so it just seems characteristic of these blunt, wooden puppets we’ll never connect to, never care about. And that’s it. That’s the fundamental flaw that dooms the picture immediately. Never mind the gimmicky “It’s a sex film with no sex!” and “we’ll play with the elasticity of time because betrayal watches no clock!” You never care about Julia Roberts, except for the time when she’s about to smile, and you’re screaming NO! not the lip!! You never care about Natalie Portman, until she’s in a thong you want her to take off. You never care about Jude Law, the self-charmer who is now invariably described by The New Yorker in every role as a “hangdog.” And you never really care about Clive Owen—despite the fact that he’s obviously a great actor polishing shit—until he channels Spader and emasculates Jude Law in a scene simply by calling him a “writer.” That was awesome. But it’s not enough. Don’t go. And I don’t mean “don’t go,” like “don’t go see “Showgirls.” You’ll never come within fifty miles of that cold, heart-blackening sickness Neil Labute serves up every time. If anyone gives you some “yeah—it’s Company of Men meets Friends and Neighbors, served cold with a Mamet reduction,” slap them hard and walk away. Otherwise, you’ll go, and you’ll just want to leave like the smarter people in front of you. You’ll just want to take your popcorn and your Sprite–and not forget your sweater this time–and walk with your boygirlfriend in that silence that’s the void of two hours and thirty dollars leaving your life, thinking how much Steve Zissou can make you back next week, as you roll down the sidewalk toward the sunset in the friscalating dusklight.
- Leroy Street
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